public office. A bell rang as we walked across, my uncle and I, from
the porter's lodge--_Inquire of the Porter_ was still written over the
door--towards the outside steps, where a footman came out in a livery
like that of Labranche at the Theatre Francais in the old stock plays.
A visitor was so rare that the servant was putting his coat on when he
opened a glass door with small panes, on each side of which the smoke
of a lamp had traced patterns on the walls.

"A hall so magnificent as to be worthy of Versailles ended in a
staircase such as will never again be built in France, taking up as
much space as the whole of a modern house. As we went up the marble
steps, as cold as tombstones, and wide enough for eight persons to
walk abreast, our tread echoed under sonorous vaulting. The banister
charmed the eye by its miraculous workmanship--goldsmith's work in
iron--wrought by the fancy of an artist of the time of Henri III.
Chilled as by an icy mantle that fell on our shoulders, we went
through ante-rooms, drawing-rooms opening one out of the other, with
carpetless parquet floors, and furnished with such splendid
antiquities as from thence would find their way to the curiosity
dealers. At last we reached a large study in a cross wing, with all
the windows looking into an immense garden.

"'Monsieur le Cure of the White Friars, and his nephew, Monsieur de
l'Hostal,' said Labranche, to whose care the other theatrical servant
had consigned us in the first ante-chamber.

"Comte Octave, dressed in long trousers and a gray flannel morning
coat, rose from his seat by a huge writing-table, came to the
fireplace, and signed to me to sit down, while he went forward to take
my uncle's hands, which he pressed.